


Slick

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 20:33:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7816201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nori tries Thranduil’s waning patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saurgristiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saurgristiel/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for saurgristiel’s “Thranduil retires for the evening/morning after dealing with dwarves for the umpteenth time but there's one last request of the day. It's sticky-fingers Nori (whatever reason you want to give him is cool). I'd love an allusion to the other fics, it can be as simple as Thranduil thinking or saying that he's tired of dealing with dwarves. Nori winds up giving him a massage (sexy times or no is your choice) and Nori attempts to steal some things (some rings, his crown, his staff, etc). How ridiculous you want to make it is up to you. He'd obviously get caught XD. Yeah, that was my thought. If it's too long, I'm sorry and I can try to think of something else. It can be a bit of a summary until it's time for Nori to leave and he just gets caught as well. I imagine him not being very confrontational and possibly Thranduil's just too tired to be too Kingly to him” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). Oh boy, this was long, so it’s a little cramped, and sorry, it doesn’t reference my other fics, because... I can’t remember them! I have sooo many fics and a goldfish memory that I just can’t do any kind of sequels, sorry. OTL
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s been another trying day, only the third, but with a dozen or so dwarves trying his nerves at every turn, it feels like it’s been years. Thorin is still refusing to talk, but the rest have entirely too much to say. Thranduil retires early, forgoing Tauriel’s usual report, and sets his crown on one nightstand with a heavy sigh. He’s just changed into a silken dressing gown, ready to slip down to the baths for a final soak before bed, when a knock sounds on the doors of his personal chambers. He knows it can’t be good.

He answers the door to find Feren frowning and gesturing behind him at yet another squat, rugged dwarf with ridiculous hair. “This one _insists_ he has something you will want and will only tell you.” The look on Feren’s face makes it quite clear he doubts this, but he’s obviously been badgered into reporting it anyway.

The dwarf barks, “Nori, at your service,” and thrusts out a hand that makes the three guards behind him jump to the ready. Thranduil has half a mind to slam the door in both their faces and have Feren thrown into Nori’s cell as punishment for bothering him.

But the rest of him knows that if he doesn’t deal with it now, the dwarves will simply pester his people until he does, so he opens his doors and gestures begrudgingly inside. The dwarf smirks as he struts in, and Feren steps forward, clearly about to protest, but Thranduil says coldly, “I believe I can handle a single dwarf.” Then he abruptly shuts the doors on his people, lest he have to ‘handle’ that dwarf without witnesses to the loss of control that only dwarves can wring out of him. 

The dwarf’s already at his dresser by the time Thranduil’s looking at him again, and there the dwarf hurriedly puts down a golden candlestick he was holding, smiling innocently. Thranduil demands, “What could you possibly have that I would want?”

“Why, my magic hands, of course,” the dwarf offers, holding both up. Thranduil lifts one un-amused eyebrow. Undeterred, the dwarf goes on, “I give the best massages this side of the Blue Mountains.” 

Thranduil’s instinct, of course, is to throw the dwarf right out of his chambers. But a small part of him latches on to a different angle—he would enjoy, he thinks, putting Thorin in his place, and using one of his supposedly loyal followers as _Thranduil’s_ personal servant would qualify. While he ponders this, the dwarf insists, “I’m not even suggesting a bid for freedom! Just a chance to attend to the most glorious king of Mirkwood!” Obviously, there must be another angle. Dwarves are foolish creatures, but surely this one must have a plan. ...And the only way to discover that would be to play along.

Purely because he’s exhausted and getting a massage is easier than strangling an annoyance, Thranduil sighs, “Very well.” The dwarf beams like he’s been granted the highest honour, which, in a way, he has.

Thranduil’s barely lay down on his bed, still in his silken robed tied firmly around the middle, when the dwarf scrambles on, kicking off over-sized boots and already stripped down to ruddy trousers and a loose tunic. He would never have been able to sneak a weapon in here, but even if he did, Thranduil’s reflexes are top-notch, and he’s confident he could disarm and defeat any opponent foolish enough to try one-on-one combat with him. The dwarf plops right down onto Thranduil’s rear, irritatingly heavy, and Thranduil scrunches up his nose and wonders already if taunting Thorin with this will be worth it.

“If you try anything funny,” he drawls, equal parts lazy and dangerous, “You will be straight back in the dungeons without food.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” the dwarf chirps, just as large, meaty hands spread out over Thranduil’s back. They set into wide circles, kneading in, then spread again, and, to Thranduil’s surprise, the dwarf actually works into a decent massage. He doesn’t have the subtlety or dexterity of Thranduil’s people, but his thickset fingers provide more pressure and are surprisingly deft for their girth. For a few acceptable minutes, Thranduil enjoys the touch.

Then he turns his head to the other side, snapping, “What are you doing?” The dwarf freezes, one hand on Thranduil’s back and the other on the handle of Thranduil’s nightstand drawer.

“Just looking for massage oil,” the dwarf suggests innocently, but Thranduil has his suspicions. The hand recedes, both now back at work. 

Another few minutes, and Thranduil, now keeping track of just how many fingers are digging into him, turns his head to the other side. The dwarf stops with his hand almost on Thranduil’s crown, to which the dwarf insists, “Just stretching! Can really give you the cramps, massaging.”

Thranduil rolls his eyes. He’s mildly insulted at how inobservant this dwarf must think him. But the massage _is_ good, and he lets it go on, until he feels the silken sash being slowly pulled free from his waist. 

Thranduil immediately lunges up, tossing the dwarf right off him and sending the sneaky creature right over the side of the bed. The rest of the sash goes with it, Thranduil’s robes falling right open, and he hurriedly holds them shut with one hand, turning to roar, “Out!”

“Just thought you might be a little more comfortable—” the dwarf starts, but Thranduil hops off the bed to chase him to the doors.

The dwarf narrowly escapes through them, right into Feren’s arms, while Thranduil calls, “To the dungeons with him—and get back my sash!”


End file.
